


The Last Song

by smallerontheoutside (theinvisiblequestion)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisiblequestion/pseuds/smallerontheoutside
Summary: She sits in the warm sand, soaking in the last of the first sun. She knows he will be there, walking down the beach in his sneakers and his suit.





	The Last Song

She sits in the warm sand, soaking in the last of the first sun. The sea below her glitters with flecks of gold and silver, and the breeze caresses her unruly hair. She knows this place well. She knows that, at this part of the day, she is not alone here. She knows  _he_ will be here, walking down the beach in his sneakers and suit. His suit will be the same brown as the dying grass behind her. When he gets nearer, he will put his hands in his pockets, and his suit jacket will move to expose his cherry-red suspenders. He will come stand next to her, and without preamble or greeting, she'll say, "Still got that silly bow-tie, I see."

He'll shift his feet and lift both hands to fidget with the article in question. "Of course I've still got it," he'll reply with indignation that is only partly sincere. "Bow-ties are cool."

Then they'll lapse into conversation or silence, and when the second sun rises, she'll stand up and look at him for the first time since he arrived.

He'll smile, and she'll say "hello."

He'll repeat it, and she will try not to stare too hard into his old, old eyes.

He'll shift feet, and she'll be caught staring anyway.

They'll crack a few clever lines between them.

He'll ask her if she's busy, and she'll make a vague answer.

He'll invite her on a trip--one trip to anywhere--and, though it kills her, she'll say, "I can't."

He'll look a little disappointed, and she'll tell him--if she hasn't already--that she must stay where she is for a reason.

He'll ask why, and she'll say, "Isn't everyone stuck in their dreams?"

He'll frown and protest and plead, but she won't hear it, and by the time he gives up, the second sun will be halfway to the top of the sky.

She'll comment on the time, and he will stand there and look at her as if he knows he's forgotten, but he can't remember. 

She'll want to cry, or run, or give in to the pain and confusion in his frown; he'll turn and walk away without so much as a "goodbye."

She knows all this will happen, because it always happens. This is her dream, her inescapable prison, an eternal life haunted by old, old eyes and childish pleas.

The first sun sets. The second sun rises. She looks down the beach. It has flooded. As the stars appear in the night sky above, she hears music, beautiful beyond beauty, sad beyond sorrow. It is the Last Song.

She falls.


End file.
